


don't cool off, i like your warmth

by misandrywitch



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Bittle family dynamics, Fourth of July, Post Graduation, Summer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2015-08-28
Packaged: 2018-04-17 14:45:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4670606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misandrywitch/pseuds/misandrywitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summer is supposed to feel just like this, Bitty thinks, swim trunks and lemonade and the smooth slide of river rocks in his hand, Jack's fingers curling around the inside of his knee where it tickles, the space between them small and getting smaller.</p>
            </blockquote>





	don't cool off, i like your warmth

**Author's Note:**

> shittybknights.tumblr.com
> 
> title's from 'summertime clothes' by animal collective (i wanna walk around with you, just you, just you, just you). big thanks to idrilka for looking this over for me :)
> 
> vaguely non-canonical now that the comic has UPDATED but ok listen ive been saying since the day i was born that they were gonna kiss on graduation, people were naysayers & negative nancys & i was RIGHT. didnt get the details right but who cares. god is real etc.
> 
> johnnyappleseedlives did some beautiful fanart of [bitty](http://johnnyappleseedlives.tumblr.com/post/157419410036/baby-and-bits-inspired-by-misandrywitchs) for this fic!!! & zimms-o-lantern drew [lardo & shitty's brief and magnificent appearance](http://junosteeled.tumblr.com/post/134279164082/zimms-o-lantern-shows-up-to-4th-of-july) xoxoxoxxoxo thank you so much

Bitty goes home for the summer, and he carries the kiss with him.

He carries it out of Massachusetts and down the coast, through Virginia and both Carolinas and over the Georgia state line.  It’s a funny thing, carrying a moment with you, a physical contact that was gone as soon as it happened but he can’t shake or forget. He carries it through May and into June, and when July rolls around he’s wondering almost daily if Jack is too and if Jack’s bringing it with him when he gets on the plane in Rhode Island with end destination Atlanta, July 3rd.

Bitty’s been carrying it around inside him all summer so far, a secret, a hidden warmth in his chest that he’s protecting and marveling at. He’s thought about bringing it up, probably to Lardo, almost has a couple times when they’ve been on the phone, but he also feels like saying it out loud will ruin it. Shatter the strange, exciting, tenuous thread of excitement and wonder and companionship that’s been building all year between himself and Jack. Bitty had been hit by it, by his own feelings, that one moment in the kitchen of the Haus, but the more he thinks about it the more he wonders if it had started before that. So he hasn’t said anything, and has just held onto it.

He’d held onto it during the tedious week they’d spent in Nashville visiting his cousins, and through all the Michael Sam jokes that the ex-high-school football players who still stop by to visit his dad think are so funny, and through every long afternoon made longer by the fact that he was in Georgia and the rest of his friends were not. That stuff sucked, it really did, but it didn’t matter all that much because Jack had kissed him—kissed _him_ —on purpose and for real.

Neither of them have mentioned it even though they’ve been talking constantly since school ended. Texting, mostly, Jack asking Bitty questions about kitchen appliances and telling him about Providence and the team and Bitty sending him pictures of his pies and his neighbor’s chickens, relaying funny things his mom says. They hadn’t even when Bitty’s mom had jumped into the middle of one conversation to exclaim “Honey you really ought to come see us for the Fourth of July!” and rather than laughing her off Jack had said “Maybe I will.”

It had sat there, implied and unspoken, as Jack had started looking at flights and Bitty had started thinking of things for them to do. But he’d expected it to vanish in the face of actually seeing Jack in Georgia in person, something he built up in his head because he’d wanted it so badly. Something that could never actually happen.

And then Jack gets there.

He hugs Bitty on the loading platform at the airport and Bitty doesn't want to let him go, and he laughs when Bitty demands they stop to get real sweet tea, and he takes a photo with Bitty’s mom and volunteers to help him shuck corn for the grill. His face cracks into a smile when he spots the framed photos of Bitty in his figure skating wear that are hung up on the kitchen wall.

“Don’t you dare,” Bitty says quickly.

“I was thinking that maybe the Samwell uniforms need more sequins,” Jack says, and Bitty pauses in the middle of peeling a husk to stare at him because that’s not what he thought he’d say at all. “Seriously, I think they’d give you a strategic advantage.”

“If I start down that road we’d lose Holster to show choir for good,” Bitty says. “That boy has been waiting his whole life for someone to give him a bedazzler.”

Jack laughs, and Bitty has missed it so bad because Jack’s laugh is funny and quiet and mostly in his eyes and brows. That part can’t be heard down the phone. Seeing Jack perched a little awkwardly on the Bittle-sized kitchen island stool in his family's kitchen, sleeves rolled up above his elbows as he shakes corn silk from an ear, is a bit strange and surreal, a clashing of the two worlds Bitty feels he's been bouncing in between since he started at Samwell. But it's also not as strange as it could be, and that feel significant. 

Definitely not something you can begin to address in a household full of your parents’ friends, though. That fact feels stifling. 

“That is a handsome young man,” his Moo Maw says a half an hour later as Bitty gives her a hand out of her car. Jack is, thankfully, out of earshot because he’s in the kitchen, but they can all see him through the open front door. “He a friend of yours, Dicky?”

“Uh,” Bitty says. “Yes.”

“You should see his father,” Bitty’s mom says slyly, and Bitty groans.

 

 

 

 

Georgia is humid, and Bitty’s family, extended family and family friends are loud, and Jack doesn’t mind either of these things at all.

They get to Bitty’s house a whole half an hour before the attendees of the Bittle’s annual July 3rd barbecue get there, meaning Jack barely has enough time to properly say hello to Bitty. They walk in the door and Bitty’s mom waylays them, offering late lunch or something to drink, tells Bitty to take a picture of them (she barely makes it to Jack’s shoulder) and to take Jack’s bag upstairs. Jack follows Bitty, who is in shorts and sandals with a tan on his shoulders marked mostly by the scattering of freckles across them, up stairs lined with family photos. Bitty flaps a hand when Jack pauses to look at one of them, probably a third grade school picture. Bitty’s missing his front teeth.

“Oh gosh, don’t,” Bitty says. He has Jack’s bag balanced on one shoulder by its strap because he’d insisted on grabbing it, and his freckles extend to his face, mostly the bridge of his nose. Jack can’t stop looking at them. “Those are all awful,” Bitty says. “Look at my hair!”

“They don’t compare to my baby photos,” Jack says in a way he hopes is sympathetic. Tiny Bitty is, frankly, adorable, all blonde hair and big brown eyes.

“Oh stop,” Bitty turns to continue up the stairs. “I think you were cute!”

“It’s not,” Jack says. “It’s okay, I was a really ugly baby.”

“You were not,” Bitty says this so firmly that Jack has to laugh because empirically yes, he was the ugliest baby ever. “Anyway,” Bitty says, “don’t give my mother the opportunity because if you do she whips out all our home videos and nobody wants that. Here, you’re in Coach’s office—doubles as a guest room. I’m next door.” Bitty holds the door open and Jack passes through it and pauses, takes his bag back from Bitty’s shoulder.

Jack had said yes to coming to visit before he could talk himself out of it, but he’d still done his very best to convince himself it was a bad idea, a running internal monologue of how much of a mistake this was going to be that had kept him up the night before and prevented him from retaining any of the book he was trying to read on the airplane. It had followed him as he’d navigated his way through the airport and risen to a fever pitch as he’d waited outside, scanning the passing cars without knowing exactly what to look for. But that had slowed when he’s spotted Bitty’s face through the windshield of a black pickup, waving frantically, and slowed still as Bitty had drove them back to Madison, alternating between talking Jack’s ear off and singing along to the radio. And right now it’s gone like it never was.

“I brought you this,” Jack says, and offers the hat. He’d stuck it on his head so it wouldn’t get crushed in his luggage.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Bitty snatches it, drops it on his head, adjusts it so the Falconers logo is facing forward. “Thanks, Jack,” he says. “Now I’m repping my favorite team. How does it look?”

“Good,” Jack says. Bitty grins.

Jack barely has time to smile back before a door opens downstairs and Suzanne shouts Bitty’s name.

An hour later, Jack is navigating through the crowded kitchen as he helps Suzanne carry bowls out the back door. The Bittle’s backyard is large, with a big deck and a hammock and a garden filled with flowers. There are curtains in the windows of the kitchen, and music playing inside, and people laughing. The sun is starting to go down but it’s still hot, and Bitty keeps pressing his beer can to the back of his neck because he’s standing over the grill.

“I’m keeping you around, sweetheart,” Suzanne says when Jack volunteers to pull things out of high cabinets for her. “Darned useful!”

Bitty’s dad arrives late, carrying a six pack over his shoulder, and Jack shakes his hand and calls him “sir.” There’s a line of tension between Bitty’s shoulders that Jack can feel rather than see, like he’s bracing for a hit, but it dissipates fast.

They eat dinner, and Jack has a beer and listens to Bitty’s Moo Maw (who is about ninety with a cloud of silver hair and enormous glasses) tell a long story about a famous actor she’d slept with when she was young. She never mentions a name but Jack has the feeling she’s implying its Cary Grant.

“Is that true?” he asks Bitty once he escapes. Coach had taken over at the grill while Bitty ate but now Bitty’s back, and he seems happy to be situated there.

Bitty laughs. “Nobody knows,” he says. “It’s a great family mystery. She’s been telling that story for so long I think everyone thinks it’d be impolite to just ask her. Hey, do you mind running inside and grabbing another tray for these? Under the oven?”

“Sure,” Jack says, and ducks inside. He finds the pan and glances up at Bitty through the open kitchen window; Bitty’s got his cousin’s new baby balanced on one hip (the baby’s smacking him on the bicep) and he’s flipping burgers with his free hand. He looks up at Jack and smiles, and even though the sun is mostly gone Jack can see the warmth in his eyes.

They stay up for a while after everyone leaves. Jack sits cross-legged on Bitty's bed and finds himself talking as much as he's listening. Bitty bounces around the room like he's full of nervous energy and the awareness of the television playing downstairs; he sits next to Jack on the bed, then gets up to fold laundry, then goes to his desk to change the song. Shitty calls around eleven, yelling "DEETS JACK DEETS" down the line, and Bitty puts his ear up next to Jack's face to listen in but moves away when Jack hangs up. Jack doesn't push it, because he gets it. It isn't something Bitty's ever said anything about, not outright, and he doesn't have to. Jack knows a hell of a lot about being afraid, and he understands the fear of a loss of control, of exposure. He'd put it all out there because he'd been filled with another kind of fear, the fear of lack of action, and maybe he should have been more candid with his words after the summer started but that's never been his strong suit. Bitty had kissed him back with a mix of hesitancy and determination that's still sitting like a shiver at the base of Jack's spine, and that had been enough. Jack can wait. 

 

 

When Jack gets up the next morning Bitty’s door is open but his room is empty. Jack can hear him singing in the shower. Bitty’s childhood bedroom is plastered with posters, musicians and figure skaters and a few hockey players, and there’s a framed picture of last year’s Samwell lineup right above his bed.

The only person downstairs is Bitty’s dad, who is fiddling with the coffee maker, and Jack almost considers loitering on the stairs until either Bitty or his mother come down. But he makes himself walk into the kitchen.

Bitty’s always talked about his father in a way that’s simultaneously amused and dismissive, offering a few funny stories here and there but mostly staying pretty quiet about him, and the complete lack of information about Coach Bittle had built him up into something big and impressive in Jack’s head. The capital letter C doesn’t help that. Coach hadn’t said anything to Jack last night beyond shaking his hand and nodding, and Jack had listened politely to the conversation he and one of Bitty’s uncles and a few other middle-aged men had about Tim Tebow before giving up on it. That hadn’t helped much, either.

In person, Coach is simultaneously less and more scary that Jack had imagined him to be, despite the fact that Jack has four inches on him. He’s built like an athlete gone slightly to seed, strong shoulders offset by a beer belly. His mustache rivals Shitty’s and he’s got a receding hairline without much grey in it.  And he turns around when Jack comes into the kitchen.

“Uh,” Jack says, “Good morning.”

“Morning,” he says, and nods in Jack’s direction as he fills his coffee cup. He gestures at Jack with the coffee pot.

“Yes, please,” Jack says, and Coach pulls another mug out of the cabinet and fills it, slides it across the counter.

“Thanks,” Jack says. Coach nods, sips his coffee. His mug looks like someone, probably Bitty in his childhood, has hand-painted it like a football. Jack thinks about commenting on this, then reconsiders. He thinks about asking Coach about who he’s rooting for but then realizes he doesn’t know his team. Coach sips his coffee again and nods a little to himself, looks out the window. Jack is fumbling for a topic in his head, trying to remember if Bitty has ever mentioned anything about his father’s other interests—Jack thinks he might like fishing? Or hunting? Both? Does he like golf?—when Bitty and his mother mercifully come down the stairs.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Suzanne says, “I didn’t realize y’all were downstairs already. You get a cup of coffee, Jack?” Jack barely has time to nod before she keeps going. “How do y’all feel about going out for breakfast? I don’t mind cooking but we’ll have to run to the store—Dicky used all the eggs in the house making all that meringue.”

“And I saw you eat a third slice of it when you thought nobody was looking,” Bitty says. He ducks out of the way when his mother swats at him with a dishtowel and goes up on his toes to pull another mug from the cabinet and pour himself coffee. “Morning,” he says, and smiles at Jack over the rim of his mug. Bitty’s hair is a little damp from the shower and he’s wearing a t-shirt and shorts, no shoes. Jack can see a sandal tan on the tops of his feet. Jack missed him.

“Morning,” Jack says, and smiles back.

“What are you boys going to do today?” Suzanne asks. “Get a move on, c’mon, you know Milo’s is always crowded if you get there after 9 o’clock.” She pecks Coach on the cheek and snatches his mug at the same time, setting it in the sink.

“I was thinking about going out to the lake,” Bitty says, following his father out into the garage. He stops and turns to look over his shoulder and Jack almost bumps into him. “If that sounds good to you?”

“Yeah,” Jack says. “Whatever you want.” He’d happily just sit on the couch and watch Bitty cook all day if that’s what Bitty wants.

“Unless y’all need the truck today,” Bitty says.

“No, no,” Suzanne shakes her head. “You need it for the roads back there. I thought the county said it was going to pave them this summer but that hasn’t happened yet.”

“Gonna be a hot one,” Coach says in front of them.

“I already feel like I’m swimming. I’ll get a watermelon for tonight, and some more ice, and I told Christine I’d drop by to say hello to her niece before they leave so we ought to do that too—“

“Did you see the recipe for watermelon margaritas I put on our Pinterest yesterday?”

“Honey, does that sound like me? Didn’t think so. You want to try them out?”

Maybe Coach isn’t all that enigmatic after all, Jack thinks as he gets in the car. If Jack lived with both Bitty and his mom he’d probably give up trying to get a word in edgewise too.

 

 

There’s a cooler sitting in the back seat of the car so Bitty buckles himself into the middle. He wrestles with the buckle, which has slid between the cushions under Jack’s thigh, and when Jack helps him pull it up their fingers get tangled up together.

“Look,” Bitty says, and leans over a little to show Jack the screen of his phone. Jack hasn’t even brought his with him. Ransom is responding to Bitty’s _Happy 4 th of July y’all!_ text.

 _WHAT THE FUCK ZIMMERMANN,_ Ransom’s first message reads, _HOW COULD YOU BETRAY ME AND THE HOMELAND LIKE THIS!!!_

His second message reads _Happy fourth of July you gun-toting capitalist shitweasels that I love._

Bitty giggles, and Jack can feel it because Bitty’s leg is pressed up against Jack’s own.

 

 

The place they go for breakfast is a local spot in the center of town that Jack suspects the Bittles go to a lot; Suzanne asks after the grandmother of the teenage girl who seats them. It’s already hot so they sit inside next to a family dressed all in camouflage, two parents and three kids.

“Do you think they all just happen to own head-to-toe hunting gear? Or did they go out and buy it special?” Bitty asks as they sit down, and for a minute Jack thinks he’s addressing him until Coach responds, which is unexpected enough that Jack glances over at him.

“Bet they bought it in bulk,” Coach says, and his mouth moves a little under his mustache like he’s suppressing a smile.

“Very economical,” Bitty says, flipping open his menu.

“Could be a new family tradition,” Coach says.

“I would rather die.” Bitty frowns at his menu. “I want pancakes I think,” he muses, so Jack is obligated to open his mouth, but Bitty catches him before he even says anything, pointing one finger up at his face. “Not one word about my protein intake, you hear? It’s a holiday.”

“I’m Canadian,” Jack says, because he knows Bitty will laugh. His expression is exactly like Jack imagines it, a sort of fond exasperation captured in the set of his mouth and the roll of his eyes. It's familiar to him now, and he likes that, and it triggers a swoop in the pit of Jack's stomach that's so different from the usual dip of anxiety that lives there. 

“And you are south of the Mason Dixon line now,” Bitty starts, but Coach interrupts him.

“Look who’s sitting behind us today, Junior,” he says, and nods his head a little over his shoulder at a middle-aged woman in a violently pink cardigan.

Bitty’s entire face lights up, and before he can say anything in response, the woman starts laughing at something her breakfast companion says. It’s very loud, very shrill, and it gets louder and shriller as she reaches the end of her cackle. Jack knows a few people with goofy laughs (Shitty, namely, who brays rather than chuckles) but he’s never heard anything quite like this.

Bitty looks positively delighted, and Coach’s face crinkles up in laughter, and Suzanne coughs.

“No,” she says very sharply. “Boys, no. You will not get us kicked out of this restaurant again. We have company. Behave yourselves.”

“Yes ma’am,” Coach says, and Bitty hiccups.

Jack gives him a look, but their waiter arrives before Bitty can return it. Jack knocks his knee against Bitty’s under the table instead, and is gratified when Bitty doesn’t move his own knee out of the way.

 

 

They’re halfway through breakfast when the woman laughs again, and Bitty stands up very abruptly to go to the restroom. As he passes behind his dad’s chair Jack hears him whisper, “Hee haw.” Coach chokes on his cup of coffee.

“Eric Richard Bittle,” Suzanne snaps. She points with her spoon at Coach. “He gets that from you. Pardon the rest of my family,” Suzanne sighs. “Anyway, honey, how are you liking Providence? Dicky tells me you have a beautiful kitchen.”

Jack is describing the city to her when the woman behind them laughs a third time, even louder, and he can’t keep the hitch out of his voice. Behind him, Bitty had started to pull out his chair and reseat himself but he turns around very abruptly.

“Forgot my phone,” he chokes, and practically sprints around the corner. 

 

 

Jack offers to cover breakfast and fumbles a little when Suzanne won't let him, and they all file out the front of the restaurant together. The minute Coach passes through the doors he looks over at Bitty and, solemnly, goes “heeeeee haaaaaw,” in an incredibly eerie impersonation of the laugh. Bitty dissolves into laughter in a way that indicates he’s been having a very hard time keeping a lid on it. Amazingly, so does Coach. Bitty doubles over, clutching at his stomach with one hand and at Jack’s bicep with the other and Coach throws his head back and laughs.

“HEE HAW,” Bitty practically wails, and there are definitely tears coming down his face. Coach pounds him on the back, howling, and Jack can’t believe what he’s seeing but he also can’t stop himself from laughing along with them even though he can see Suzanne’s face.

“Let me know when you two clowns are finished,” she says, crossing her arms with a quintessential Bitty expression on her face.

“Oh my Lord,” Coach wipes at his eyes then mops at his bald spot.

“Poor Mrs. Lincoln,” Bitty wheezes. “May she never change. I can’t believe you just made me laugh like that in front of Jack, you are the worst, oh Lord.”

Jack wants to say that he doesn’t mind, that he’d missed Bitty’s uninhibited laughter and that he likes this, Bitty’s family and its squabbles and inside jokes and mannerisms passed down from parent to child. He doesn’t, but he wants to. 

 

 

 

 

Jack goes upstairs to change into his swim trunks, and Bitty swaps his shorts out for a swimsuit and collects towels and sunblock and the book he’s in the middle of. He shoves all this into a picnic basket along with a few water bottles and is rooting around in the fridge for sandwich ingredients.

He’s singing along to the music from his phone and doesn’t hear Jack come back down the stairs, because of course he is, and when Jack chuckles Bitty jumps a little. He’s in sneakers and a t-shirt and swim trunks with maple leaves on them.

“Really?” Bitty can’t stop his grin from creeping across his face.

Jack shrugs. “Shitty bought them for me last year,” he says. “They’re better than the boxers.”

“Did you bring those too?” Bitty asks, then regrets it, then stops regretting it when Jack’s mouth slants up in a smile.

“Are you packing a—wait,” Jack interrupts himself and shakes his head, leans his elbows onto the kitchen island. “That’s not a serious question. Of course you’re packing a picnic.”

“Mister Zimmermann,” Bitty shakes his head, sets the sandwiches into the basket and crosses his arms, leaning his hip against the counter. At this angle his head’s above Jack’s, and Jack looks up at him and raises his eyebrows. “You did not come all the way across the country to point out the obvious,” Bitty says. “And if you know anything about me it’s that I will never pass up an excuse to pack a picnic.”

“Guess I didn’t,” Jack says. He drums his fingers on the counter in the space between them, and the palms of Bitty’s hands itch. It’s the first time, not counting the car ride from the airport, that they’ve actually been in a room alone together.

That fact smacks him hard and he’s suddenly incredibly aware of how close they are, how the corner of Jack’s mouth is turned up and how big his hands are, sitting on Bitty’s kitchen island. Bitty wants—but he also doesn’t know—and the desire is neck and neck with something else saying _No ERB don’t be stupid he would never_.

And then Bitty’s mom opens the sliding door that connects their backyard and the dining room, and Jack sits back up.

“Fireworks start at nine,” she says. She’s carrying zucchinis from their garden and she hands them to Bitty, who is trying not to look like his pulse is careening around out of control. “Are y’all going to be back by dinner?”

“Think so,” Bitty says, proud of the fact that his voice is mostly steady. “I’ll give you a shout if we’ll be any later than seven.”

“Have fun,” his mom says, and she ruffles his hair which makes Bitty squawk and Jack laugh again.

 

 

 

“There are some lakes that are a lot bigger than this one, but they’re always crowded,” Bitty says as they bump over the beat-up back road that leads towards the stretch of beach he’s aiming for. “This one gets busy down at the other end, but nobody really comes to this spot. It’s not a great spot for fishing and the road is bad, guess that’s why.”

“Are there fish though?”

“Coach and I have caught some a couple times,” Bitty says, maneuvering the truck around a rock in the road. He has to get one wheel off the side to get past it successfully, and tree leaves brush up against the windows. “Nothing big, though.”

“Dad and I will take you ice fishing some time,” Jack says, “if you come to visit.”

Bitty gives him a look through his blush and the picked-up one-two of his heartbeat. “The whole point of fishing is that you can spend an afternoon in a boat in the sun waiting for fish to bite,” he says. “What on earth is fun about it if you have to wear your winter clothes to stay warm?”

“It’s exciting,” Jack grins.

“You want exciting, ask my uncle to take you noodling,” Bitty says archly.

“Noodling.” Jack says this incredulously, so Bitty spends the rest of the drive telling the story about his uncle’s college roommate’s brother, who lost a finger to a catfish when he was 17.

 

 

There aren’t any cars parked along the road where Bitty usually stops to get down to the water, which is a relief. They have to push through a stand of thick trees and some rocky trail before the vegetation opens up a little, and Bitty hoists the picnic basket up on his shoulder to make the going easier.

“I can get it,” Jack says, reaching for it.

“Don’t be silly,” Bitty says. It isn’t that heavy, and he starts towards the lake with it balanced on his left shoulder, held between one arm and his head. Jack gives him a funny look that Bitty can’t read, then shakes his head and follows him.

“This is pretty,” Jack says when they reach the lake, which is both gratifying and true. The stretch of beach is a long jumbled mix of sand and rocks framed by broad-leafed trees on one side and a few huge, moss-covered boulders on the other. There’s an old dock, nothing more than a few nailed-down logs, stretching out into the water, which is clear and looks cold. It’s 15 feet deep or so where the dock stops, deeper farther out. The banks of the lake turn and curve away so even though it’s a fairly large body of water the spot feels secluded and quiet. There isn’t anyone else there.

Bitty sets the picnic basket down and Jack walks to the edge of the water with his camera in his hand, sits back on his heels to put his elbows on his knees. The shutter flicks a second later.

Bitty picks a spot with the fewest rocks and spreads out his picnic blanket, then kicks off his shoes. The sand is warm under his toes. He’s rubbing sunscreen into his arms when Jack turns around to tuck his camera back into its bag and then yank off his own t-shirt.

“Here,” Bitty says, feeling suddenly brave. “Would you?” He tosses the bottle to Jack, who catches it. “Back of my neck?” He turns around and keeps talking, because he’s nervous. “My tan line is hysterical,” he says. “And so are my freckles. I honestly step outside and start burning, and I’ve been out so much this summer because of camp and the weather. Last year Lardo said I fall into the category of bros who never take their shirts off—maybe I should more often to even things out, huh?”

“It’s not so bad,” Jack says, and his hand makes contact with the back of Bitty’s neck. Bitty hisses in a breath when Jack’s fingers follow the line of his spine. “I like your freckles. I’ve never noticed them. Um.”

“Well, you wouldn’t, not in the middle of a New England winter,” Bitty says. He’s already gotten his shoulders so Jack’s rubbing sunscreen into them a second time but he’s not about to stop him.

“Yeah, it’s hot out,” Jack says. “Sticky. Is the water cold?”

“Usually is, yeah.” Bitty turns around. “Wanna walk down to the dock? I usually just have to jump in otherwise I chicken out before I get in above my knees.”

Jack bends down to stick his fingers in the water as they walk up the sand. “It is not,” he says, and he flicks water at Bitty’s shoulder.

“Is too,” Bitty counters.

“Ice fishing,” Jack says, and he’s got a point. The sand is hot under Bitty’s bare feet so the wooden boards of the dock feel good, even though they’re slippery and a little slimy with moss. Jack walks to the end, peers down at the water.

“Your camera’s not in your pocket, is it?” Bitty asks, and Jack looks over at him.

“No,” he says, “I left it with the lunch. Why?”

Bitty doesn’t answer, just takes a bit of a running start and hip checks Jack as hard as he can. It still feels like checking a wall, and it probably only works because Jack isn’t expecting it. But Bitty catches him completely off-guard and he wobbles, misses his footing and topples sideways right into the lake.

“Bittle!” Jack shouts when his head pops up above water. He spits water, shaking his hair out of his eyes.

“Gotcha!” Bitty calls.

“You’re supposed to leave the checking on the ice,” Jack grumbles, treading water. He paddles back to the old dock and catches it with his fingers

“Why would I do that?” Bitty asks. “I don’t have an advantage on the ice—uh oh—“ Jack has pulled himself up out of the water in one smooth movement so all the muscles in his arms stand out, and he shakes more water out of his eyes and is giving Bitty a look that Bitty doesn’t like. “You stay away from me,” Bitty says, half a second before Jack lunges for him.

Bitty makes an attempt to flee because he knows he can outpace Jack running, but Jack catches him around the middle before he makes it more than a foot. He gets both arms around Bitty’s stomach and lifts him up, and Bitty wriggles in vain before he realizes there isn’t any way he’s going to break Jack’s grip, even if he really wanted to. Jack’s fingers are flat around Bitty’s waist, his chest hard against Bitty’s back and his laughter in Bitty’s ear. Bitty settles for screaming dramatically as Jack hauls him to the edge of the dock.

Rather than throwing him in Jack jumps and they hit the water together. It’s cold, but it feels good because the day is hot and getting hotter. Bitty surfaces half a second before Jack does and he uses his tiny advantage to fling both his arms around Jack’s shoulders in an attempt to dunk him.

It has virtually no effect except to make Jack laugh, but that’s good enough.

“I hate you,” Bitty says. “You giant.”

“Do you?” Jack catches Bitty’s wrist with his hands.

“Maybe not,” Bitty says, and then he splashes Jack in the face. 

 

 

They swim for a while, until Bitty starts to feel hungry and the water starts to feel cold, and they eat their lunch sitting on the blanket. Bitty checks his phone as his shoulders dry off, laughs as he glances through Lardo’s Snapchat story.

“Oh my God,” Jack says, leaning over his shoulder and shaking his head. It’s a series of photos of Shitty in an American flag Speedo; lying spread-eagled on a lawnchair, brandishing a very expensive-looking bottle of cognac, grilling, flipping the camera off. In the last one Lardo’s face is visible and she’s saluting Shitty’s ass as he poses dramatically behind her. “That’s his dad’s pool,” Jack says. “And probably his dad’s booze too.”

“It’s nice they’re spending the day together,” Bitty says, and means it. He snaps a picture of his own laughing face, then of the water for good measure. “I miss them. Well, I miss everyone. I always feel like I’m on the other side of the world down here.”

“Georgia’s a whole different country,” Jack chuckles.

“You think that’s a joke,” Bitty jabs Jack in the arm, “but some of my neighbors would probably go for that. Don’t wanna give them any ideas.”

Jack leans back on his elbows and closes his eyes. “I like it just fine,” he says.

“Yeah sure, it’s the most beautiful place in the world if you get rid of all the people.”

“Not all of them,” Jack says, and Bitty’s glad his eyes are shut because he’s sure his blush doesn’t stop at his face.  

 

 

Jack falls asleep, or at least lies in the sun with his eyes closed, and Bitty tries to read his book but can’t focus. He doesn’t let himself just lie there and stare at Jack, how his hair’s in his eyes and how his chest is rising and falling, so he stares at his hands, the cover of the book, the weave of the blanket they’re lying on. He thinks about graduation, about the kiss.

Shitty and Jack had walked, and Bitty had cried and taken a lot of photos and cheered a lot, and they’d both hugged him and he’d cried more, and then the “Feeling Myself” music video had dropped and Bitty had honestly felt a bit hysterical and had made himself go sit in his room for a bit to collect himself. When he left his room neither Shitty nor Jack were in the Haus, so he’d texted them both.

 _Faber,_ Jack texted back, so Bitty walked in that direction before he could be stopped by Ransom or Holster or his own nerves or any other excuse.  

Jack was sitting in the bleachers, still in his dress clothes but with his tie loosened, looking out over the ice. Bitty sat next to him, bumped his shoulder into Jack’s. Half of the lights were out and the rink was shadowy, not bright or loud. They sat for a while side by side.

“You know,” Jack said finally, “the first time I saw this place I thought I’d be completely miserable for the next four years. Another first judgment I should apologize for, eh?”

Bitty rolled his eyes. It was weird, funny even, being at a spot where they both joke about how mean Jack had been. “The first time I saw it I thought I was gonna quit,” Bitty said.

“Glad you didn’t.”

“Me too.” Bitty looked over at him and smiled and Jack didn’t look away, held Bitty’s eye. His face had been soft and serious, eyes very blue, and Bitty had started to wonder at the fact that they were sitting there at all, how far they’d come, how completely empty the rink was and how they were probably the only people in the entire building when Jack leaned forward, caught Bitty’s chin with his fingers, and kissed him.

It had taken Bitty so completely by surprise that Jack had registered the shock on his face as something negative, and tried to get up, and then there had been a scramble because Bitty reached out to stop him without realizing he simply wasn’t big enough to stop Jack from going anywhere. Bitty ended up getting pulled to his feet and they’d stared at each other.

And then none of that mattered because Jack kissed him again.

Bitty feels like he’s thought of it so many times that he’s memorized it; the press of Jack’s lips and his chin against Bitty’s chin, his hands on either side of Bitty’s face and how careful it had felt, careful and serious and warm. Both real and impossible at the same time, in a way that makes Bitty’s head swim and his chest hurt.

Impossible because Jack is—well—there are still some things Bitty doesn’t know about Jack but there are a lot of things he does. He did. Jack is intense, but also funny. Jack plays his cards close to the chest. Bitty is no longer sure that Jack is straight, not since Epikegster and “Kenny” and the shattered look on Jack’s face when Kent Parson had opened his bedroom door. But Jack is his friend, his captain and teammate and completely out of his league. And just because he isn’t straight—and Bitty hadn’t been sure, not really, because he hadn’t understood what he’d walked into beyond knowing he wasn’t supposed to hear it—doesn’t mean he’s interested in Bitty. Jack is not the kind of person to be interested in Bitty.

But, of course, Jack is also in Bitty’s hometown, to visit him. Jack is lying on a blanket on the beach Bitty goes to with his dad, arms crossed under his head and eyes closed, looking relaxed. He’s snoring just a little. Jack had kissed him, and come to visit anyway. Jack--

Bitty’s been thinking, a lot, turning it all over and over again like he’s run the kiss through his mind over and over, thinking about the heat of Jack’s mouth but also the warmth in his eyes. His moment of complete desperation when Bitty had pulled back in surprise, followed by relief when Bitty had stood up. And the rest of the year, too; the oven and Jack’s hands warm on his back as Bitty had sobbed into his shirt. His hands on Bitty’s ankles during Spring C. Every time Jack had dragged him out of bed to run or go to the rink in the mornings, how he hadn’t minded doing that even though he had so many other things to worry about. How he’d bought Bitty coffee. Snapped Bitty’s picture. Laughed at his jokes.

Bitty’s been wondering if he’d gotten it really wrong. 

 

 

 

 

Jack surprises himself by dozing off, and when he wakes up Bitty’s not sitting on the blanket. He’s down the beach, bent over and digging through the sand for some reason. Jack gets up slowly, because he’s warm both inside and out, in the languid and bone-deep way that only comes from lying in the sun for a long time when it’s probably too hot outside. Bitty’s hair is a bright gold halo around his head in the soon-to-be-afternoon sunlight, and there’s sand in between Jack’s fingers, and for the first time in a long time there isn’t anywhere else Jack wants to be.

He’s always thinking about what’s next, where he’s headed, what he has to check off to get there: get drafted (check), apartment (check), finish thesis (check), graduation (check and check). There’s an edge of anxiety when he feels like he’s not on top of it, not planning ahead or worrying enough. But he doesn’t feel like that right now.

It brings to mind another summer, a similar feeling. It’s not really a comparison, or a memory; more like a similarity, an observation. And it had been a long time ago. Another summer, in a different city, different company, but still with things looming on the horizon, the distinct impression that every minute mattered because they’d all be over too fast. Nights spent crammed into the back seat of his car with bad midnight radio programming playing, elbow caught between the door and the armrest in a kind of distant discomfort that hadn’t really mattered because other things had mattered more. Taking the long way home from parties and getting lost but not minding it, wearing jerseys with the wrong names on the back, laughing at jokes that make no sense when he tries to remember where they originated.

Jack used to not think about those things because they’d felt like they no longer belonged to him, sometimes like he didn’t deserve them and other times like he simply didn’t want them. He feels like that less and less. It’s all probably awash in a veneer of nostalgia; clinging to that last gasp of childhood with his fingertips had been gritty as often as it had been sweet. But that feeling—that there’s no place better because all the company you want is here and every sun-filled pointless minute is one worth experiencing—is real.  

Jack hadn’t thought he’d ever feel like that again.

He brushes sand off his elbows and stands up, walks to the edge of the water and then follows it until he winds up next to Bitty. He’s still frowning down at the half-submerged rocks, searching for something, but he looks up when Jack’s feet crunch through the sand and smiles. It’s felt like Bitty has been evaluating the space between them, wrestling through something that Jack understands in an abstract way but hasn’t brought up. He’s wanted—he wants—but he also wants Bitty to want it too, to feel it’s right.

Bitty straightens up and takes a step towards him, closing the space between them, and Jack thinks that maybe it is.

 

 

 

 

 

“What are you looking for?” Jack asks. His hair’s a little ruffled from his nap.

“I was gonna skip rocks,” Bitty says. “But you have to find the right kind and I’m not having a ton of luck.”

“Flat on the bottom, right?”

“Yeah,” Bitty says. “It’s easier if it’s flat on both sides but I can make do with just one.”

“Like a—"

“Hockey puck, yes, thank you.”

Jack squats and braces his elbows on both of his knees. He’s got sand on the back of his neck and Bitty wants to brush it off, but stops himself, then does it anyway. Jack doesn’t move or turn around, just leans forward a little so Bitty can flick off the sand that’s right behind his ear.

“Probably all in my hair,” he says.

“That’s what you get for falling asleep with your head in the sand.”

“What about this one?” Jack is digging around in the sand and Bitty leans over his shoulder to look at the rock he’s holding up.

“Might work,” Bitty says. He plucks it out of Jack’s hand and then bends down himself to keep looking. “This one looks like a turtle,” he says. It’s got an iridescent sheen to it. “See? There’s its face.”

“This one is shaped like Shitty’s mustache,” Jack says, and tries to hold the rock between his nose and upper lip.

“Now you have lake slime all over your face,” Bitty says.

“We were swimming in there an hour ago. I think there’s lake slime everywhere. Wait,” Jack reaches over Bitty’s knee to snag another rock.

“You found it,” Bitty says. “It’s all yours.”

“It was under your knee,” Jack says. “And I found it for you, anyway.”

Bitty feigns mock annoyance. “We’ll do it together.” He takes the rock in between his right thumb and index finger, slides his thumb over the surface. It’s black and very slick, smooth on the bottom. Jack’s hand settles over his so their wrists line up, but Jack’s fingers are long enough that they drape around the bottom of Bitty’s hand. He has to bend his knees to get their shoulders level and his left arm is in the way so Bitty elbows it a little and then just pulls it in to his side. Jack’s fingers curl around Bitty’s waist and he’s sure Jack can probably feel his heart on the back of his ribcage, where his back is up against Jack’s chest.

“Alright,” Jack says in his ear. “Like a Frisbee, right?”

“Yeah,” Bitty says. “Right on the top of the water. Ready?”

They count out loud together and move together, and the rock takes flight.

“Four—no five! That was five!” Bitty shouts, and Jack cheers in his ear. “That was pretty damn good!”

“I almost thought it would do six,” Jack says. They’d both turned to watch the progress of the rock so their faces are side by side, and when Bitty glances over and up at him he can feel his breath tickle all the hairs on the side of his head. His heart’s racing but he also feels sure, in a way he hadn’t before.

Bitty turns a little, and Jack lets go of his hand but doesn’t move the arm that’s around his waist. With his knees bent they’re eye to eye, which is novel in itself. Bitty puts his hands on Jack’s shoulders, which are warm from the sun and the water.

“Jack,” he says, and Jack’s eyes are huge. He opens his mouth to start the beginning of a word but Bitty never hears him because he leans forward, closes his eyes, follows the line of Jack’s nose with his nose, and kisses him.

Jack sighs into his mouth, follows Bitty’s cheekbone with his thumb, and that first kiss had been hesitant but this one is just soft and thorough, and when he finally pulls back a little Bitty feels lightheaded.

“Now you’ve got lake slime in your mouth,” Jack says.

“Sweet talker,” Bitty says, and Jack laughs, leans his head into the crook of Bitty’s shoulder. “I’m sorry I didn’t—“ Bitty fumbles, and this is easier to say because he can’t see Jack’s face, “I—I wanted it to be real but I guess I didn’t know if you—“

“I do,” Jack says, and he does move back to look Bitty in the eye. “There’s no question about that. Hasn’t been, for a while.”

“I think I’m figuring that out,” Bitty says. “So do I. Like, you, I mean.” His grin is probably ridiculous so he kisses Jack again to hide it, but he can feel Jack’s smile against his mouth and he’s sure his own is just as bad.

“I’m sorry,” Jack says after a minute. “My knees are killing me, Bitty.”

“Oh gosh,” Bitty says, because Jack has been crouched awkwardly to be on his level. Jack straightens so now Bitty’s looking up at him, meaning he has to go up on his toes just a little when he presses his mouth to Jack’s again. “Here I am making you suffer.”

“Worth it,” Jack says. He slides his arm over Bitty’s shoulders and Bitty gets Jack’s other hand, twines their fingers together, and they stand there for a while looking at the water together.

 

 

Bitty’s ears turn scarlet when Jack asks, and he scratches the back of his neck with one hand. They're sitting side by side on the blanket and Bitty's hauled out the lemonade he brought along and also the sunblock, because he's starting to burn. 

“Um,” he says. “When we were doing the final for that food class, baking in the kitchen. It probably started before that but, uh, that’s when I realized.”

“Oh,” Jack says.

“What? What about you?”

“Definitely before that,” Jack says, and laughs, and Bitty can feel his face getting hotter but he doesn’t really mind.

“It could be complicated,” Jack says a minute later, and his voice sounds a little strained. “The season starting and—not that I don’t want—“

“I think it’s worth trying,” Bitty says. “We can play it by ear, maybe, but I want to—“

“Me too,” Jack says quickly. He puts his hand on Bitty’s knee and lets it rest there.

“It’s your job to tell Shitty though,” Bitty says. Jack groans.

“He’ll be insufferable,” he says.

“Don’t care.” Bitty closes his eyes. The sun is warm on his face. Summer is supposed to feel just like this, Bitty thinks, swim trunks and lemonade and the smooth slide of river rocks in his hand, Jack's fingers curling around the inside of his knee where it tickles, the space between them small and getting smaller. 

“I can’t bribe you into it?” Jack asks, and Bitty shakes his head firmly. He hears Jack scoot closer across the blanket and shift a little, and then he leans over to press his mouth to the spot where Bitty’s jaw meets his ear. He hadn't shaved that morning, and his chin is a little prickly. The contact makes him shiver. “What about now?” Jack asks. Bitty can feel his lips move. 

“You’re a menace,” Bitty says, and he can’t avoid how breathy his voice sounds. Jack chuckles a little against his jaw. “And the answer’s still no.” He pauses. “But you might have to do that again so I can be sure.”

“Right,” Jack says, and does.

 

 

They drive back into town in time for dinner, and Bitty showers to get lake water and sand out of his hair, and then they pile back into the truck with his parents. They’re obligated to go pick up his cousin and her family at Bitty’s grandmother’s, and Bitty spends the rest of the ride out to the city park that does the fireworks sitting in between his dad and uncle in the front seat with the baby on his lap. Jack volunteers to sit in the bed of the truck.

People have spread out blankets and set up lawn chairs on the grass, and Bitty’s mom spots some of her friends and leads them all through the crowd to claim some space nearby. It isn’t a great spot and it’s pretty crowded, but they’ll most likely spend most of their time gossiping so it hardly matters.

Bitty sets down the cooler he’s carrying but then pauses.

“We could go further up the hill, if you want,” he says. “It’s a bit of a trek but the view is better. We don’t have to, though. This is fine, I guess.”

“Whatever you want,” Jack is giving Bitty’s grandmother a hand, and he looks a little flustered when she winks at him. “Up the hill is fine.”

“We can just stay here,” Bitty knows he’s waffling, can feel himself sounding annoying, but he can’t help it. There are a lot of people here, and the likelihood of running into someone he knows from high school is relatively high. But it also seems too obvious, somehow, the implications of their wandering off into the dark together too clear. “Um,” he says.

“Bittle,” Jack barks, dropping into his capital-C Captain voice just like that. It makes everybody jump. “Get a move on, eh? Hustle.”

Bitty starts laughing. His dad does too, after a second.

“Hustle, huh?” Bitty asks. Jack nods, a sharp gesture with his chin, and he’s kept any other expression off his face other than sternness but his eyes are bright. “Alright,” Bitty says. “Here it is, then. Race you!” And he turns and sprints as fast as he can towards the hill, leaping over someone’s picnic basket and nearly barreling through a bunch of kids throwing a football. “Sorry!” he yells as he goes.

“Bittle!” Jack shouts. Bitty hears him say, “Excuse me,” which is hysterical, and then take off after him.

Bitty’s laughter catches him before Jack does, and he has to stop before he reaches the summit of the hill. Jack almost barrels into him and they walk the rest of the way up together.

 

 

In the end, they don’t really end up watching the fireworks.

 

**Author's Note:**

> bitty's pov was difficult for me so i hope i did him justice!! hmu on tumblr or twitter if you feel like it 
> 
> this is the most ridiculous thing i've ever written in that i started off being like 'summer's almost over i want to write about jack & bitty kissing before i have to take a media law class & die' & cait was like 'write about jack & bitty at the beach looking at cool rocks' & then i was like 'well.... what if i also wrote about the 4th of july.... but also about graduation? but ALSO about ngozi's comment that bits & his dad make fun of people together????'
> 
> anyway, do you all ever think about that feeling you get when you're young & kinda drunk & kinda in love & 18 years old? & you spend a lot of hot nights sitting in cars listening to the top pop hits of 2008 because that's what your stupid best friend thinks is his jam? or loitering around city parks because you're a teenager & everything else is closed or 21+ & the party you wanted to go to is boring? & you're stuck in this feeling that everything's going to change & there's nothing you can do about it & you may never be here like this ever again? & even though other things are rough & complicated & terrifying this moment & his hand on your arm & his mouth on your mouth is solid & real? 
> 
> CAUSE I DO


End file.
